


formerly organic beings

by notjodieyet



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka
Genre: Angst, But it's gentle, Checkers, Implied Sexual Content, Intimacy, M/M, Mentioned Alison Cheney, the doctor is afraid to grow up, the master is afraid to let go, the master is simply the ultimate robot husband
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjodieyet/pseuds/notjodieyet
Summary: the master reflects on past intimacies with the doctor as they play a game of checkers; the doctor wonders what changed between them.
Relationships: Ninth Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	formerly organic beings

The sound of the TARDIS was buzzing constantly in the back of the Master’s mind, like it always was, and he lifted his teacup to his lips and stared the Doctor down across the table. The Doctor sat on the other end of a checkers board and tapped a single fingernail against the tabletop.

_ Analyzing white chip to 5A,  _ said the TARDIS in the back of his mind.  _ Chances of success: low. _

_ Analyze my opponent, too,  _ said the Master silently. He watched the Doctor try his best to not fiddle with anything, and utterly fail. 

(It had been a long time since either of them had outwardly showed affection to the other. A single, stolen kiss long before Alison’s arrival, and the Master feared the next would be after her exit.)

But the Master knew how to read him. The TARDIS knew how to read him.

_ … Chances of your opponent  _ noticing _ the chances of your failure are low. _

The Master smiled ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth tugging up. He moved his checker piece. 

(It had been a long,  _ long _ time since either of them had outwardly showed affection to the other. Before that short kiss… the tender brush of his hands as he did routine repairs, toiling away just out of the Master’s sight. His fingertips had been warm and sweet and gentle, but he had pulled away far too soon for the Master’s tastes.)

(Afterward, he had flexed his newly fixed, sparking fingers and looked at the Doctor, sure his longing was evident in his eyes. The Doctor pulled him close wordlessly, locking their lips, and steering him towards his bed.)

“You’re good at this,” said the Doctor, moving his own piece. The TARDIS had been right —as she always was — and he didn’t notice the brask risk of the Master’s previous action. “You didn’t used to be.”

The Master hummed. He didn’t need to give excuses anymore. They were both too far past excuses to turn back. “You’re not,” he said.

(A long time. It had been a long time indeed. Before any of it, the Doctor had said, “You were fashioned quite well,” and the Master said, “You fashioned me yourself,” before realizing that maybe he was trying to flirt. He’d wanted to kiss the Doctor, then, but instead they found themselves tangled with each other on the living room couch, the Master listening to the Doctor’s heartbeats, touching and not-touching all at once.)

“You’ve changed,” said the Doctor, almost as if to himself.

The Master wasn’t, at first, entirely sure how to reply. Of course he’d changed. Organic beings  _ did _ that, and he was still a little organic, at least. “You, as well,” he said finally. Shortly. Unsure.

“No,” said the Doctor. He picked up a checkers piece and moved it, badly. “It’s not the same. You and me. We’re different.”

“Yes,” said the Master. Of course they were different. Organic beings  _ did _ that. He was beginning to become frustrated, at least a little bit, at least so far as his emotional reactors allowed him to feel frustrated. 

(A long time, the Master mused. The Doctor had once — was it before? After? Time blurred together past a certain point. Did his memory banks need updating, or was it simply a side effect of existence? — played music through the TARDIS speakers and, in a more animated fashion than the Master had seen him in a while, grasped the Master and twirled him around. “Dance with me,” he’d breathed in the Master’s ear, giddy on the melody.)

(Queen, it had been.  _ Somebody to Love  _ and  _ You’re My Best Friend, _ in that order, he thought, although it could have been the other way around. He’d been in such high spirits that day, so quick and easy with his touch and kisses. The Master treasured that day, still.)

“No. I mean…” The Doctor reached out, laid his hand gently on the Master’s arm. The Master told all his systems quite firmly not to respond. The systems controlling his blush refused to listen. “What happened?”

(The Doctor once grabbed the Master, out of nowhere, and kissed him until their lips were sore and the Master didn’t have any power over his helpless giggling anymore. “You’re just as beautiful, like this,” said the Doctor. “You’re so beautiful.”)

(They had been watching a movie when the Doctor held out his hand and interlaced his fingers with the Master’s. They sat like that, hand in hand, until the credits rolled, and neither spoke of it again after that.)

_ What happened.  _ The Master didn’t know. The TARDIS didn’t know. 

(“I think you need a tune-up,” said the Doctor, without prompting, once. He didn’t tune the Master up at all; they kissed on the bench and then the floor and then stumbled out in each other’s arms, barely making it to the bedroom without falling over.)

(They slept together, still. They barely touched, or spoke — save for exchanged “Good night”s, that was — or even looked at each other. But they slept together. The Master didn’t know, even now, if he could bear sleeping without the comforting presence of his Doctor beside him, mumbling words from his nightmares in his sleep. There was no real sleep for the Master anyway, only a complete shutdown of his systems. Anyway. Despite that.)

“It’s all scrambled up,” said the Master, honestly. Helplessly. He didn’t know what happened yesterday, or tomorrow, or a year ago. 

Sometimes he was afraid he’d begun degrading a long time ago, and never bothered to tell anyone.

“What happened,” said the Doctor again, but it wasn’t a question this time. “Darling.”

“Dearest, dearest Doctor,” said the Master.

“ _ What happened _ .”

The Master bit his bottom lip, a habit from nowhere that he couldn’t shake. “I don’t know,” he said, but it was a lie now. “I don’t know, I don’t know, Doctor.”

“What happened,” said the Doctor, moving his hand so it traced the artificial curves and bones of the Master’s face. The Master didn’t dare to take in any now-unneccessary breath.

“I…” said the Master.

The Doctor ran a finger over the Master’s mouth. Not shushing him.  _ Aching  _ for him. 

“I grew up,” said the Master.  _ Now _ he is truly helpless, unable to prevent the words from dropping from his mouth. “I grew up, Doctor, and you never did. You — you Peter Pan, you.”

“I know,” said the Doctor. “I think I’ve always known.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Master, although he isn’t.

“There’s nothing to be sorry  _ for _ .” 

“Kiss me,” said the Master.

“ _ I’m _ sorry.”

“Kiss me.”

The Doctor leaned forward and whispered: “I don’t think it can ever be the same, you know.”

“Oh, shut up,” said the Master, and he kissed him instead. 


End file.
